Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘Is she in the file?’

Vianello shook his head. ‘Just the wife. We’ve had someone in the apartment next to hers for two days, but there’s been no sign of him there.’ While they spoke, they walked down the stairs to the office where the uniformed branch worked.

‘Did you call a launch?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It’s outside. How many men do you want to take?’

Brunetti had never been directly involved with any of Malfatti’s many arrests, but he had read the reports. ‘Three. Armed. And with vests.’

Ten minutes later, he and Vianello and the three officers, these last ballooned out and already sweating from the thick bullet-proof vests they wore over their uniforms, climbed aboard the blue and white police launch that stood, motor running, in front of the Questura. The three officers filed down into the cabin, leaving Brunetti and Vianello on deck to try to catch what little breeze was created by their motion. The pilot took them out into the bacino of San Marco, then turned right and headed up towards the entrance to the Grand Canal. Glory swept past on both sides as Brunetti and Vianello stood, heads together, talking against the force of the wind and the roar of the motor. They decided that Brunetti would go to the apartment and try to make contact with Malfatti. Since they knew nothing about the woman, they had no idea what her involvement with Malfatti might be, and so her safety had to be their chief concern.

At that thought, Brunetti began to regret having brought the officers along. If passers-by saw four policemen, three of them heavily armed, standing near an apartment, a crowd was sure to form, and that would draw the attention of anyone in the building.

The launch pulled up at the Ca’ Rezzonico vaporetto stop, and the five men filed off, much to the surprise and curiosity of the people waiting for the boat. Single file, they walked down the narrow calle that led to Campo San Barnaba and then out into the open square. Though the sun had not yet reached its zenith, heat radiated up from the paving stones and seared at them from below.

The building they sought was at the far right corner of the campo, its door just in front of one of the two enormous boats which sold fruit and vegetables from the embankment of the canal which ran alongside the campo. To the right of the door was a restaurant, not yet open for the day, and beyond it a bookstore. ‘All of you,’ Brunetti said, conscious of the stares and comments the police and their machine-guns were causing among the people around them, ‘get into the bookstore. Vianello, you wait outside.’

Awkwardly, seeming too big for it, the men trooped through the door of the store. The owner stuck her head out, saw Vianello and Brunetti, and ducked back into the shop without saying anything.

The name ‘Vespa’ was written on a piece of paper taped to the right of one of the bells. Brunetti ignored it and rang the one above. After a moment, a woman’s voice came across the intercom. ‘Si?’

‘Posta , Signora. I have a registered letter for you. You have to sign for it.’

When the door clicked open, Brunetti turned back to Vianello, ‘I’ll see what I can find out about him. Stay down here, and keep them off the street.’ The sight of the three old women who now surrounded him and Vianello, shopping trolleys parked beside them, made him regret even more bringing the other officers with him.

He opened the door and went into the entrance, where he was greeted by the heavy, thudding sound of rock music spilling down towards him from one of the upper floors. If the bells on the outside corresponded to the location of the apartments, Signorina Vespa lived one floor above, and the woman who let him in on the floor above her. Brunetti walked quickly up the stairs, passed the door to the Vespa apartment, from which the music blasted.

At the top of the next flight of steps, a young woman with a baby balanced on her hip stood at the door of an apartment. When she saw him, she stepped back and reached for the door. ‘One moment, Signora,’ Brunetti said, stopping where he was on the steps so as not to frighten her. ‘I’m from the police.’

The woman’s glance, beyond him and down the steps, to the source of the music that thundered up the stairs behind him, suggested to Brunetti that she might not be surprised by his arrival. ‘It’s about him, isn’t it?’ she asked, pointing with her chin towards the source of the heavy bass that continued to flow up the stairs.

‘Signorina Vespa’s friend?’ he asked.

‘ Si. Him,’ she said, spitting out the syllables with such force that Brunetti wondered what else Malfatti had done in the time he had been in the building.

‘How long has he been here?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking another step back into her apartment. ‘The music’s been on all day, ever since early morning. I can’t go down and complain.’

‘Why not?’

She pulled her baby closer to her, as if to remind the man in front of her that she was a mother. ‘The last time I did, he said terrible things to me.’

‘What about Signorina Vespa, can’t you ask her?’

Her shrug dismissed the usefulness of Signorina Vespa.

‘Isn’t she there with him?’

‘I don’t know who’s with him, and I don’t care. I just want that music to stop so my baby can get to sleep.’ On that cue, the baby, which had been heavily asleep in her arms, opened his eyes, drooled, and went immediately back to sleep.

The music gave Brunetti the idea, that and the fact that the woman had already complained to Malfatti about it.

‘Signora, go inside,’ he said. ‘I’m going to slam your door and then go down and talk to him. I want you to stay inside. Stay in the back of your apartment and don’t come out until one of my men comes up and tells you that you can.’

She nodded and stepped back from the door. Brunetti bent forward, reached into the apartment, and grabbed the door by its handle. He pulled it towards him violently, crashing it shut with a sound that rang out in the stairway like a shot.

He turned and slammed his way down the steps, pounding his heels as hard as he could, creating a torrent of noise that momentarily obscured the music. ‘ Basta con quella musica!’ ’ he screamed in a wild voice, a man driven beyond the limits of patience. ‘Enough of that music!’ he screamed again. When he got to the landing below, he pounded on the door from behind which the music came, screaming as loud as he could, ‘Turn that goddamned music down. My baby’s trying to sleep. Turn it down or I’ll call the police.’ At the end of each sentence, he banged, then kicked, at the door.

He must have been at it for a full minute before the volume of the music suddenly grew lower, though it was still fully audible through the door. He forced his voice up into a higher register, shouting now as though he had finally lost all control of himself, ‘Turn the goddamned music oft Turn it off or I’ll come in there and turn it off for you.’

He heard quick footsteps approaching and braced himself. The door was pulled back suddenly, and a stocky man filled the doorway, a short metal rod gripped in his hand. Brunetti had only an instant, but in that instant he recognized Malfatti from his police photos.

Holding the rod down at his side, Malfatti took one step forward, bringing himself half-way through the door. ‘Who the hell do you-’ he began but stopped when Brunetti lunged forward and grabbed him, one hand on his right forearm and the other on the cloth of his shirt. Brunetti swiveled, turned on his hip, and swung out with all his strength. Caught completely off guard, Malfatti was pulled forward and off balance. For an instant, he balked at the top of the stairs, trying vainly to shift his weight and pull himself backwards, but then he lost his balance and toppled forward down the steps. As he fell, he dropped the iron bar and wrapped both arms around his head, turning himself into an acrobatic ball that tumbled down the steps.